


honour in sutures

by theflyjar (sithanakin)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient China, Confucian Themes, Doctor/Patient, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Healers, Healing, Honor, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Battle, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23762773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithanakin/pseuds/theflyjar
Summary: The battle is done, bodies and horses and limbs are strewn across the floor and the smell of smoke stings in Yifan’s nose. The end is near for him, though. His throat is too dry to call for help and the blood that’s spilling out from the stab wound on his stomach numbs him. His head hurts and he can’t move, he can only look up to the sky and blink.He doesn’t want to die.
Relationships: Wu Yi Fan | Kris/Zhang Yi Xing | Lay
Comments: 18
Kudos: 85
Collections: EXO-M Fic Fest R2





	honour in sutures

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #: 26  
> Prompt: they meet in the middle of a war. he's bleeding, dying, and on the verge of death when in comes the man who heals him and saves him. he didn't expect the one to save his life to be on the enemy's side. 
> 
> There is an age gap between Yifan and Yixing, Yifan is around 30 and Yixing is around 22-23. 
> 
> qinai de - a loving endearment, like darling or dearest  
> zan - a hair pin  
> guan li - a confucian coming-of-age ceremony for men, usually done at 18-20 years old (it is at 20 years old for all in this fic)

An Angel comes as the chaos fades. 

The battle is done, bodies and horses and limbs are strewn across the floor and the smell of smoke stings in Yifan’s nose. The end is near for him, though. His throat is too dry to call for help and the blood that’s spilling out from the stab wound on his stomach numbs him. His head hurts and he can’t move, he can only look up to the sky and blink.

He doesn’t want to die.

He’s always been scared of dying.

But, he joined this cause because it’s what he believes in. The general that led them had told them every day that the only truly dignified man is one who dies for what he believes is right. And the tears that fall down from Yifan’s eyes, ones absent of sobs, they’re silent apologies to his mother and his family name. They may perceive his death as one filled with valour, but Yifan knows the truth. He knows the fear and the panic and the voice in his head that pleadingly screams: “I don’t want to die.”

He is not the ‘truly dignified’ man his general spoke of. He may believe in this cause, but he did not wish to take death’s hand to be led to the afterlife for it. Yifan’s a coward, doing everything possible to not give himself up and degrade everything he has been taught.

But, it’s simply too difficult. The sun stings his eyes and he can barely lift his eyelids to blink and keep them open. Unwillingly, he’s about to let go, simply because he does not have the strength to hold on much longer, so he closes his eyes.

Everything goes dark. The stinging in his eyes leaves, with only the tears remaining, and instead he focuses on the warmth of the sun. Yifan thinks that death itself feels like heaven as it spreads through his body. He wonders why dying feels so much like living, if this was some blessed beginning of the afterlife.

Then, something pours water into his mouth and he gags slightly on it, his eyes flying open to see an angel. The water canister against his lips audibly sloshes and Yifan can hear the gentle lulls of a voice, encouraging him to drink. He almost doesn’t want to; the feeling of dying is not one he wishes to survive. 

But, that voice and the faint sensation of someone touching his cheek, they both ground him until his eyes can open and he sees light flitting around the shadowy silhouette of an angel. He thinks that maybe this figure isn’t one to bring him back to earth, but one to guide him up some heavenly stairway to some magical land where all is beautiful and perfect. 

A stray bow’s arrow sails across the sky, a thin black blot tarnishing white clouds, tells Yifan that this is no afterlife of splendour. It is still a battleground and he’s still bleeding out, still dying in the dirt.

He can barely groan when the person feeds him more water and wills himself to swallow it down in hopes that it’ll ease his pain. Simply moving his throat wears him out, eyes rolling upwards for his sight to be blackened by his eyelids, and he thinks death’s come to take him. That the tenderness of the hand on his cheek is some weak consolation prize for dying for a cause Yifan never wished to die for. 

***

The sound of men talking and laughing filters through the air, lightly accented by the distinctive crackle and popping of firewood as it burns, and Yifan can hear it all as he wakes. It is painful to move, to breathe, to do anything other than flit his eyes open. There’s fabric everywhere, hung over the skeleton of a tent frame, and it moves gently with the breeze. Everything is calm and bright, warm and comforting. 

A weighted blanket covers him, a small pot that dangles from a wooden tripod is bubbling over a fire, and there’s a rumpled pile of used, bloodied bandages in the far corner. It’s basic and nothing of luxury, but Yifan doesn’t realise any of that. He’s too disoriented and pained to think of anything but his stomach and dying.

He isn’t sure of how long he lays there, blinking and grimacing, but someone enters the tent not too long afterwards. They don’t realise he’s awake as they potter around, checking on what is simmering in the pot and adding things into it from a small leather pouch. 

When he notices that Yifan’s eyes are open, he gasps softly and darts to Yifan’s side.

“You’re awake?” The man asks, gently stroking Yifan’s sweat-soaked hair. 

His touch is foreign, but it’s so gentle that Yifan doesn’t mind it, not even as he begins to panic slightly.

He doesn’t know where he is, who this man is, or even how he got there. The last thought he can remember having was of dying. He hadn’t wanted death, but he thought he had accepted it as some kind of necessary burden, and yet he was there. There isn’t even a wash of relief for not having had his life taken from him. Confusion is all there is. And pain, the sharp stings and the dull pains, all layered over one another until it’s all he can feel.

“I’ll get you some water,” the man tells him, disappearing out of the tent and reappearing within moments, holding a cup of water that has a wisp of steam curling from it. He places the cup to Yifan’s mouth, using his free hand to cradle and support Yifan’s head as he lifts it. “Be careful when you swallow, it will most likely be painful. Don’t overexert yourself, just take small sips.”

Yifan does just that. Only, he isn’t prepared for the hot, tearing sensation that sets his body alight with a blinding fire with each contraction of his stomach and throat. He wants to sputter and cough, but even the mere thought of doing that breaks him out in a cold sweat. 

“You’re doing great,” he’s praised, “just a little more and then you can rest.”

His lips are dried and cracked, probably bleeding from the exertion of holding them open for the water to be poured between. The water, though, is warm. Not unpleasantly so. Not like the cup has been left out in the summer sun all afternoon, but one that has been brought off the boil barely five minutes before. There is still water sloshing in the cup when it’s removed from his mouth, and the hand gently rests him back down onto the cushion beneath his head. 

“That was wonderful.” 

Yifan looks at the man once the pains of swallowing and moving have subsided, observing him again but trying his best to take everything about him in. 

He looks like he rises to around Yifan’s shoulder height, his hair soft where it’s swept away from his face into a bun, and his robes are simple and light for the summer heat. The man’s face is so gentle and soft, eyes rounding slightly to give him an air of innocence, and his lips petal pink and prominent on his face. He is both handsome and beautiful, but not overwhelmingly so upon the first look. 

His hands are soft and light when he removes the blanket to observe Yifan’s stomach, gently feeling around where Yifan assumes his wound to be and Yifan watches him as best he can without moving. The man’s expression is one of concentration, especially when he moves off to leave the tent, only to then return with more coils of cloth bandaging, and a recently boiled bowl of water. 

The man removes the soiled bandages and washes Yifan’s wounds with swipes of dampened cloth that are barely there, humming as he goes and only touching Yifan’s bare skin with his fingers to move the fabric of Yifan’s clothing. He inspects the sutures closely, remedying the heat of the wound with the water, and Yifan finds the sounds and the feeling of the process almost soothing. Being tended to in such a way dulls the pain just enough that Yifan can close his eyes and relish in it. 

And he finds himself drifting off, exhausted and fatigued from the exertion of drinking and battling pain. 

***

The days continue like that, in quiet repose within the tent. Yifan is tended to and he watches. He is fed water and soup - which happens to be what is in the pot that hangs over the fire - and he truly does feel better each time he wakes. The only time the pain is burning hot is when the man has to rest itch a tear in a few of Yifan’s sutures. Though, Yifan is given a piece of hardened animal hide to bite down onto, mutedly screaming, whilst steady and soft hands make quick work of repairing the damage. 

With his lucidity growing with each time he wakes, Yifan finds himself registering more and more. Whilst his understanding of what is happening around him is increasing, it induces a new kind of confusion upon him. The structure of the tent, the way the man dresses and decorates his hair, and the conversations of the men outside — Yifan knows he’s not with his own army. He isn’t kept alongside others who are injured. He is on his own and Yifan knows the man caring for him must be a medic of sorts to move with such confidence around Yifan’s wounds.

It makes him think too much. It makes him wonder why he was taken from the battlefield, where death should have taken him, and brought here. By those who are supposed to be his enemies. Their medical supplies, water, and food are all being shared with him via this one man, and Yifan finds himself questioning why at random moments in the day. 

Yifan considers his mother, too. She consumes most of his thoughts whenever he is alone. He wonders what she would think of him. If she would think it ignoble to not die amongst his comrades under the banner of their general. He itches to write to her, despite her only being a spirit now, but he doesn’t know when he will be able to move enough again without excruciating pain, so he doesn’t think to ask for an ink well, brush, or paper. 

Instead, he lays there quietly and observes the man to distract himself. He talks to Yifan on odd occasions, predominantly babbling out petty complaints of the camp and frustrations with weather conditions, but mainly he hums and sings to himself. It takes Yifan out of his own head and makes him feel more present in the world, less alone with his pain and thoughts.

He appreciates the man, and everything done for him. He finds himself wishing the stranger near whenever he cannot sleep at night. Yet, he never speaks those thoughts aloud. 

In fact, he never speaks at all.

***

Yifan wakes early one morning, the chill of the night still present and the fire in the corner burning low until it’s only an ember that glows. The man is outside of the tent, Yifan can tell from the gentleness of his voice as he hums a little tune. He isn’t alone, though, the rising sun casts the silhouette of another figure through the pale fabric of the tent. 

No words pass between the two men, but they appear to work together quickly to stoke up a fire, likely boiling water or soups for their breakfasts. Other soldiers populate the camp, too, a change in the guard watch bringing men home hungry and tired, and waking others up with similar feelings. Yifan wonders why the stranger is awake so early, having left him late in the night after changing the bandages and checking Yifan’s healing. He must have barely had any time to rest. 

With no reason to be sure of why, Yifan wonders why a sense of concern strikes its way through his chest. It may be that Yifan doesn’t wish for his healer to slacken in his abilities to draw him even closer to death. Or, which Yifan worries may be more likely, he’s fretting simply because he cares for this stranger. Even if he bears the colours and emblems of those who Yifan considered an enemy barely days before. He’s never encountered someone as tender and thoughtful of another person’s pain before, even when Yifan would graze his knees as a child and be wiped clean by a village elder. 

Yifan traces the movement of the man’s shadow until he emerges through the tent opening, eyes meeting Yifan’s immediately. The man smiles softly, nodding his head slightly before speaking.

“You’re awake.” It’s almost a hum to not break the stillness of the morning, and Yifan’s body relaxes hearing it. “I’ll get you some water and something to eat, then check your bandages, okay? I won’t be long.”

He nods back, communicating slightly for the first time beyond groans and yells of pain. The man stills to observe him a little longer before ducking out from where he came in, heading to the fires he had been fostering with the other person. Yifan can see everything he does, how he disappears off, to return with bandages, then stooping down to pour water and soup into a cup and a bowl. The second man fusses over Yifan’s stranger, hissing out:

“Yixing, don’t carry too much at once! You’ll drop something.”

 _Yixing._ The name echoes in Yifan’s mind, originally heard spoken in a chastising tone but it’s mollified by something in Yifan’s brain. There’s an urge to sound it out, to say it aloud, still, Yifan doesn’t wish for his healer’s name to be butchered and mangled by the pain of speaking. So, it stays inside his head, where it ricochets around, even when the man himself appears with the other behind him.

The other man is holding the cup of water and, _Yixing_ , he bears the bandaging and soup. 

“Have something warm to drink first,” Yixing suggests, gesturing to the other man for a moment. “Ge will help you with that, whilst I get some more water to clean you up with.”

Unlike Yixing, this new person doesn’t hum or sing mutedly, nor does he cradle Yifan’s head in his palm to help him drink. He does prop him up, but it’s awkward, and Yifan struggles to swallow the water comfortably. A tense grimace is what it takes to drink even a small sip in this position he is held in. It’s not malicious, Yifan can tell, but it’s not as commiserative as Yixing’s helpful touches. 

When Yixing does return, he is holding a slightly steaming bowl of water that has a cloth draped into it. Yixing places the bowl down beside where Yifan’s laid and gently pulls away the blanket from atop Yifan, moving his clothes out of the way to reveal his stomach. The new man takes a glance and his expression says it all for Yifan. He’s not seen the damage done to his own body, hasn’t had the physical ability nor the mental strength to even attempt to see the damage.

But this man, Yifan can read it upon his face. 

It must be a ghastly sight for a grown man to grimace so instinctively, unable to school his emotions even during a time of war. 

“You’re lucky to be alive.” Those words ring out between the three of them. 

_“Ge,”_ Yixing warns, his tone harsher than Yifan’s used to, but still airy enough to soften Yifan. 

“It’s true. Had anyone else found you that day, you’d be yet another enemy body burned or buried in the ground. You’re lucky that it was Yixing.”

The truth of the words strikes Yifan hard. He had been so close to the end in that battlefield, close enough that, even though he didn’t wish for death, he knew he should die. He was almost ready to perish, yet another nameless face lost to the tyranny of war. But then fingers touched him, brushing against his skin like the wings of some celestial bird or angel, and he had returned back to the present. 

He is aware of what he owes and who he owes it to, and that man, the soft Yixing, is still tenderly cleaning his wounds. 

Dutifully and calmly, Yixing is there.

***

Yixing is in bright spirits when he enters the tent, hair wet and a gentle waft of lilac drifts towards Yifan. He’s holding a larger bowl of water than usual, a series of clean wash rags draped over the rim of it. Yifan watches as Yixing places it down beside the fire, likely to keep the water warm, and he approaches Yifan with his expression gleaming. 

“Your healing is going well,” Yixing informs, crouching to greet Yifan. “If you would like to, we can try to get you moving a little?”

Still remaining quiet, Yifan nods. In the short reprieves he’s had from pain, he’s felt exhausted but also infused with restlessness. Laying in one place itches deep into his bones. Since childhood he has been active, helping his mother toil in the village fields all year round, turning the earth, planting seeds, nurturing them as they go, then harvesting when ripe. Winter isn’t cold, but the summer heat is punishing, and Yifan thinks of his mother then. 

Had she lived through the winter, the springtime splinters and blisters on her hands would have healed, just as Yifan’s have. Her skin would be turning golden, lines around her mouth and eyes darkening, and her back would be aching. She would rise early in the mornings, bringing water from the well before light seeps into the world, to water the crops before the sun beats down upon them. Her hair would slip from where it is tied upon her head, loosened by exertion, and it would catch in the breeze. She would be such a stark contrast to the greens of the crops, her skin glowing with a brighter light than the sun and hair dancing like the night sky. 

Missing her drives an ache straight into Yifan’s heart.

They only ever had each other; his father an unknown figure and his grandparents at rest with the spirits of their ancestors. He thinks of how their house would be empty, their fields bare of any crops, and no gifts left for their ancestors. None left for his mother, even with her death so fresh. 

She had looked stern yet longing when Yifan had told her he would join the rebellion forces of their local minister. Neither praising him nor scolding him for following in the footsteps of her father. She had commanded him to stay safe as her last wish, and he had disobeyed her.

 _“Oh,”_ Yixing’s hushed exclamation rouses Yifan’s mind back to the present. 

A damp, cooling cloth is pressed to Yifan’s cheeks, and he chances a glance up to Yixing. It’s difficult to not admire Yixing with his peaceful yet breath-stealing beauty. He is not a thunderous, sublime, aweing waterfall that drops from a sheer face of a mountain. He is a tranquil pool that spills from between trees in some mystical forest. And Yifan can only take him in.

Yixing’s concern stretches across his entire countenance, worry swimming in his eyes and pulling down on his lips. 

“Are you in pain?” Yifan shakes his head. Yixing frowns further, slightly more distraught, “But, your tears?”

Blinking thrice, Yifan realises that he is crying. Blurred pools sit along the bottom of his sight and the fabric Yixing dabs across his cheeks chases and catches the stray tears. He hadn’t realised the absence of his mother would strike him so firmly, bringing him a new pain. 

“There, there,” Yixing hums, smiling gently. “We can wait another day or two, if you need it?”

Yifan cannot take his eyes from Yixing, somewhat transfixed by this man and every ounce of tenderness he’s shown. Yifan wants to touch across Yixing’s cheeks, where dimples indent themselves, one more prominent than the other. Yixing’s lips are soft and plump, not dried and burnt from the sun like most other soldiers and villagers Yifan has known. Youth still clings to every part of him. Yifan knows he must be older than Yixing. By around six summers, at least. 

Not wanting sadness to tarnish Yixing’s face further, Yifan shakes his head.

“Want to,” the noise catches in Yifan’s throat, his own voice unrecognisable to himself, “try.”

Struck by the raspy, barely-there presence of Yifan’s voice, Yixing freezes in his movements. Only for a few heartbeats, though. Then, he’s kneeling, descending from a crouched position by Yifan. 

“We will only try sitting up first. Then, if you’re able to, I can give you a standing bath.”

Yifan doesn’t protest when Yixing places one hand lightly on his stomach and the other down between Yifan and the bed, resting between his shoulder blades. Stronger than he looks, Yixing takes the brunt of Yifan’s upper body weight onto one hand, gently lifting him. He begins to help, groaning when the pain rips through him and Yixing gives him plenty of pauses in sitting upright. 

His back aches and his chest heaves from the slightest of movements, but slowly he manages to be upright. Yixing’s palm remains on where Yifan’s cut lay, keeping it steady and in place, ensuring Yifan doesn’t pull on the sutures. 

“You’ve done wonderfully,” Yixing assures, the words spoken so close to Yifan’s ear that Yixing’s breath feels hotter than the sunbeam coming in through the edge of the tent’s fabric. “Do you think you can hold your own weight, so I can adjust your legs?”

Yifan considers it for a moment, taking stock of his pain, before he nods and grunts out an affirmation. Instantly, Yixing’s hand leaves Yifan’s back, removing the comfort they bring but it returns to Yifan’s legs. 

“Keep your stomach still as best you can, I am going to need both hands to move your legs without causing you too much strain.”

First, Yifan’s blankets are pulled back, left to drape over the bed’s footing. Then, hands curl beneath Yifan’s knees, lifting them with a slight pull to rest at an angle. Yixing moves slowly enough to not strain Yifan’s body and yet with enough speed that Yifan’s not entirely drained by the action. Next, Yifan’s feet are lifted and he twists steadily on the bed, until they come to rest on the floor. Part of his bodily strain escapes through his soles and into the dirt flooring below. Yixing praises him, stroking Yifan’s hair and mopping his brow with the rag his tears had been soaked into. 

“Would you like to try standing? Or, is this enough for today?”

“Enough,” Yifan manages to grumble, trying to catch his breath and focus on what it feels like to be upright again. It’s a war to quash the pain that roils within him to dampen his sensations of achievement, but he fights as hard as he can. 

Fingers caress his forehead and brow, right over where it’s tense from how he screws up his face to contain the pain. 

“We can lay you down again, if you wish? Don’t push yourself too far.”

Yifan’s hands grip at the edge of the bedding, head bowed, and toes curled. His entire midriff burns and he finds it ironic, truly ironic, that being sliced open pained him far less than this. Perhaps it was an ancestral gesture of guidance. Perhaps it was something else. But, he resents the battle now. 

Fruitless and pain-inducing, that’s all Yifan can think as both sweat and tears drip from his face. He doesn’t see where they land. All he can think of is the sun rising over his home, over the land he and his mother worked, and his mother weeping upon her deathbed. The rebellion leaders had spoken of glory and honour, but all Yifan remembers is fear and terror. 

One singular moment of triumph was the touch of this angel, the one that wraps his arms around Yifan to hold him as he sobs. He does not speak out empty placations nor does he coddle Yifan. He blesses him with presence and the ability to think of home. 

There is no dirt surrounding his flesh and bones, he has not been reduced to nothing but charcoal and ash, but he has soft fabrics and the warmth of someone else’s body. He has the chance to sob over what could have been lost and what is lost, all because of the angel with his lilac scented skin and neatly bound hair. 

“Why don’t we wash all this sadness away, hmm?” Yixing asks, retreating from Yifan for a moment to bring back the large bowl. Eyes flickering open, Yifan nods minutely.

Yifan can feel the warmth from the water through the edge of the bowl, glimmering globules of lilac-smelling oil rest atop of the waterline, and Yifan watches them swirl as the water sloshes slightly. 

“Raise your arms,” Yixing whispers and, obediently, Yifan does so.

It takes some time, but it is done. Yixing manages to wrangle Yifan’s upper tunic off with soft tugs, then works on bending Yifan’s bandages once more and now, Yifan can see the damage done to him.

The cut, looped together with neat and uniform stitches, completely mangles his stomach. Furious in its colouring of red, jagged and horrifying, Yifan pictures himself with this open wound. His innards would have been revealed and blood drained almost entirely. Even looking upon it slightly healed, Yifan knows he would have left himself for dead. 

He would not have hauled that gory sight to anywhere but a grave to die in. He would have left himself to rot amongst those bodies.

Yixing, however, smiles at Yifan. There is no disgust or revulsion there, merely the sight of pride and earnestness. Yifan would blame it on naivety but no man could see what Yixing has seen as a healer in war and be left with an ounce of such a thing. 

Once he has bent to push a cloth into the water, coating it with warmth and floral scent, Yixing wipes Yifan’s body clean. Sweat and musk are soothed from his body and replaced with a brightness. The fabric used to clean him soils to a slight brown shade, leaving Yifan to feel ashamed that someone has to bathe him. 

Another part of him preens, relishing in the attention he’s given. He’s not been bathed since he was a boy and then, the water was cold. Drawn straight from a stream that came from high up on some mountain. This is warm and Yixing’s touch is almost loving in a different sense of what Yifan’s mother’s were. 

His hands are massaged, as are his neck and shoulders, and the dried crusts of blood from his wounds dissipate to leave him clean. 

Yixing manoeuvres Yifan’s loose trousers off his legs and sets about washing Yifan’s feet and up his legs. 

With someone so beautiful observing his bare body, Yifan would often feel embarrassed, but that burden has worn off with Yixing. Multiple times daily, he ensures that Yifan never soils himself, and he never sneers nor mocks Yifan for that. He is bedbound and dependent, and Yixing is someone to latch onto. But washing like this, it feels different.

Yixing kneels between Yifan’s legs, wetting every part of Yifan’s body with this beautiful water, and caresses him with velvety fabrics to do so. He is meticulous but grows shy, pink stealing space on his cheeks, when he comes to Yifan’s groin. 

Arousal doesn’t rush through Yifan when he’s touched. His body likely knows that he cannot handle that in such a weak state and still so riddled with pain but wonders if he would be if he had the capacity. A muted voice in his brain informs him that he likely would be. That is suppressed and swallowed down, not wishing to taint this wonderful human with those thoughts. But he notes Yixing’s shyness, his awareness of Yifan’s body and Yifan’s vulnerability.

He dries Yifan with another fabric and dresses him in new clothes, again taking the brunt of Yifan’s weight when he is laid down again. Yixing fetches Yifan some warm tea and more soup, coaxing him into being fed. All Yifan wants to do is sleep again, drained entirely of everything, just from the simple act of moving to be upright and remaining like that for barely ten minutes. However, he knows he must eat to replenish and be able to heal. So, he does, and is rewarded with a perfect smile. 

***

Yifan is barely asleep when he hears footsteps beside him, the weight and pressure of them familiarly Yixing’s so he remains rested with his eyes closed. Only, Yixing stops beside Yifan’s head, and then there’s the light touch of fingers on Yifan’s cheek. It takes everything within him not to jolt with fright, but he doesn’t wish to reveal that he’s awake. 

The touch grows in pressure, becoming tender strokes that make Yifan think of his mother comforting when he was a young boy. Yixing begins to hum, too, a soft, lullaby-like tune that soothes even the most turbulent parts of Yifan’s mind. Yixing’s voice is light and enchanting, something to be charmed by whilst Yifan tries to forget the pain he’s suffering. 

It is when he’s drawing near to sleep, that Yifan hears Yixing’s humming grow closer until they’re a hair’s breadth from his face, and then there’s a gentle skim of lips against his cheek. Then, to his nose, other cheek, and forehead. The faintest of kisses are dotted around his face in buds of some sweet sensation unfamiliar to Yifan.

He should recoil. He should voice some degree of disgust towards this person he hardly knows touching him so affectionately. But, he simply doesn’t want to. He wishes to cling to what feels like love pressed against his skin. All he has felt is pain and multiple degrees of suffering, and his only wish is to steal this tenderness for himself. Locking it away to be felt again. To be on the receiving end of something good, pure, and honest.

He drifts off like that, lulled by Yixing’s soft voice and touch, and his even softer lips.

***

Not a word is spoken of Yixing’s kisses. Yixing remains the same in his treatment of Yifan, sometimes accompanied by the one Yixing merely refers to as _‘Ge’_ but most often not. Yixing hums out praise of Yifan’s recovery, helping Yifan to sit up and bringing him a backrest to lean on. He says it will aid Yifan’s healing if he moves slightly, doing basic things like sitting up. 

It takes many days of attempting before Yifan can do it entirely alone. Yixing exclaims in pride, clapping once, and Yifan finds himself smiling at what he has managed on his own. Once Yifan can manage that, Yixing brings him drinks and bowls of food to eat by himself, observing how Yifan moves to do so and helping him when his fingers tremble too much.

Yifan sleeps less and observes more. He still cannot walk around, the pain too overwhelming and his body too weak. Instead, he watches the silhouettes of those outside of the tent as if they are a display of puppetry. 

The form of Yixing is easily identifiable to Yifan. It’s something in the way he moves and carries himself, it’s graceful and purposeful. The ability of rising to a seated position allows Yifan an insight to Yixing outside of the tent. He can hear the questions of wounded soldiers’ health posed to Yixing, where he contemplates the optimal route for healing and bestows commands upon others. Yixing holds a form of gravitas amongst the camp, at least surrounding where Yifan is. His word is heeded, and his help called for in moments of emergency. 

Tirelessly, Yixing works, his hours often beginning before sunrise and ending long after Yifan succumbs to sleep. Exhaustion should drive a stake directly through Yixing. Not even youth could negate the toils of such long hours. Yifan speculates and ponders whether these habits are righteous. If working to the bone is a true way to live.

Yifan knows little of Confucius and his scriptures, yet he feels that Yixing embodies them fully. Something about Yixing indicates that he follows loftier ideals than most. Yifan abides by the details he was raised with; loving and respecting his family above all. Nevertheless, Yixing’s entire being seems consumed with it, with being the figure who upholds his duty before any obligation for himself.

It is impossible for Yifan to mistake the weight under Yixing’s eyes and the pallor of his skin. In caring for others, he hardly cares for himself. It is Yixing’s _‘Ge’_ and some other who pester Yixing to be mindful of himself, pausing him to give food and water, or ushering him off to sleep on the nights he comes to check on Yifan.

No part of Yifan wishes to strain this man, to lay some burden upon him that need not be necessary. But Yixing never allows Yifan to be in any position to bring him relief. 

Yixing washes Yifan each day, dabbing away sweat and refreshing Yifan’s body — all with that same pinkish dusting on his cheeks. He rushes to help Yifan at any slight groan. And, he never shows himself to be drained. 

Healing appears to be the only manner in which to help this man, laying still whilst ointment is applied to wounds and accepting what bitter-tasting medicine he is given to take. 

Yifan hopes that his obedience helps Yixing. Wishing that leaning into tender touches displays even a modicum of his gratefulness. And that, touching Yixing’s cheeks in return gives him something to think of, long after Yifan’s fingers are back by his own side. Just like Yixing’s do for him.

With days blurring together, Yifan’s fondness and trust grows. They delve deep into a part of Yifan that is unknown. 

It’s one night, when there’s nothing but the glow of the fire to help Yifan’s eyes follow Yixing about the room, that Yifan’s soul burns with four simple words. They don’t come up easily, scratching and rattling in his chest and throat, drying his mouth. Still, he manages to utter them quietly enough to be whispered but loud enough to be deafening in the dark, quiet night:

“I am Wu Yifan.”

Yixing pauses for a moment, as if struck by the words, then he smiles. He gravitates to Yifan’s side to sit upon the edge of the bed and cups Yifan’s cheek with a single palm.

 _“Yifan,”_ Yixing repeats, sounding his name out and carefully mimicking the exact tones. 

Just hearing his name, the tenderness within which it is spoken, sends tears to his eyes that tingle in his nose. He turns his head slightly more to the left, where Yixing holds him, and places his lips upon the flesh of Yixing’s palm. A single kiss, that’s all he gives. And, that’s all Yixing takes.

***

“Yifan,” Yixing coaxes, drawing Yifan from sleep, the smell of breakfast heavy in the air. “It’s time to eat.”

Since learning his name, Yixing takes every opportunity to use it and Yifan cannot help but smile to hear it hummed or sung in Yixing’s delightful voice. He opens his eyes before moving, thankful that the first sight of his day is Yixing and not anything else. He feels surrounded by the man, even if large swathes of their days are spent apart with Yifan restricted to his bed and Yixing having other obligations. 

It takes a few minutes of movement until Yifan leans against the backrest and he holds a bowl of congee upon his lap. He misses when Yixing would feed him, a spoon held to his lips whilst another hand touches him softly to keep him still. It almost feels as though there is too much distance between them, even if Yixing does sit pressed against Yifan’s thigh to observe him and inspect his bandaging. 

Yifan hasn’t bled through the fabrics in a little while and that pleases Yixing, but Yifan cannot help but worry. His mind has place for anxieties and fears, since the pain quietens with every passing hour. 

Soon, he will come to a point where he is completely mended, no longer broken. Knotted together in scars, but no longer needing Yixing's closest attention and the light presses of his fingers. Yifan will bathe on his own, will take his meals in solitude, and will be somehow discharged from Yixing’s care. 

He does not know where he will go. He knows nothing of where this camp is, leaving him with no thought of how to travel back to his mother’s grave. Yet, he does not want for Yixing to leave his side. He wants to cling to Yixing like knotweed, to be cared for but also to provide the opportunity to care for Yixing in return. Yifan does not want to be left, nor does he want to leave. 

The tumult that brings has Yifan placing his spoon back into his bowl, resting it there as he grabs Yixing’s hand with his own. Yixing glances up to him questioningly, focus slipping from Yifan’s wound. 

“Yifan?” Yixing’s lips stay parted once the word has been spoken, etching an innocence to Yixing’s face and reminding Yifan of Yixing’s youthfulness. 

He wishes to plead for Yixing to never part from his side, to sing him to sleep each and every night for the rest of his life and to remain within arm’s reach to chase away any kind of pain. 

Instead, Yifan does not say a word and merely holds Yixing’s hand in his own. Yixing does not urge him anymore. He simply twines their fingers together and gazes upon Yifan peacefully. 

They remain like that until Yixing is called away, urged on by his _‘Ge’_ to treat others. Yixing leaves a single kiss to Yifan’s middle fingertip before he wraps Yifan up again, taking with him Yifan’s now cold breakfast with him. 

***

It is with his hands on Yixing’s shoulders, and Yixing’s on Yifan’s waist, that Yifan stands again. There is less pain than when he was first sat upright, but it labours on his joints, muscles, and sinews. He is the weakest he has ever been, lacking in the strength he had built up during his training as a soldier and years in the fields. 

Yixing’s presence is both a physical support and an emotional one. He praises Yifan’s smallest gains as if they are triumphs, bolstering him until Yifan’s shame is absent. He holds Yifan steady, smiling up at him, whilst Yifan moves his legs in shuffles and short steps. Panting and furrowing his brow tightly, Yifan does a single lap of his bed before he confesses that he can go no further. 

They remain standing, though, close enough that Yixing has to tilt his head upwards and Yifan bows his own down. Yifan imagines taking Yixing into a kiss, closing their eyes to be lost in the sensation of it and holding each other tightly. Yixing’s eyes are rounded, widened cutely, his lips are covered with a slight glossy sheen of saliva, and his cheeks are deepened by the kiss of a blush. Yifan has never seen something so beautiful. 

He doesn’t carry the confidence he may have had in years gone by, so when Yifan leans down and Yixing’s eyes flutter shut, their mouths do not meet completely. Instead, Yifan’s lips gently press against the corner of Yixing’s. 

The gasp that quivers through Yixing’s lips is heaven in a single sound. Yixing’s fingers dig into Yifan’s waist for a moment and Yifan runs the tip of his nose along Yixing’s cheekbone. They stand craned towards one another like two birds nesting, curved to fit completely with each other. 

Yixing’s breath warms Yifan’s jawbone and neck, uncaring that Yifan’s somewhat unfurled hair tickles at his forehead and nose, and the world has never felt more still to Yifan. Their lack of movement rings through Yifan’s body and mind like some unspoken confession of something. And Yifan hopes his ancestors can look upon him proudly when he places a single kiss on the tender part beneath Yixing’s ear. 

When they part, Yifan’s body buckling under the strain of being upright, Yixing kisses Yifan’s temples to settle him onto the bed. 

Then he retreats, pink-cheeked and holding the entrance of the tent tightly in a fist when he turns to say, “Goodnight, _qinai de.”_

***

Upon their next meeting, Yixing is accompanied by someone new. Even younger than Yixing in age, Yifan thinks he must still be in his teen years. If Yifan already felt that Yixing was too young to be marred by the horrors of battle, this boy sends an itch of disquiet through his heart. 

Yixing, bright and exquisite, comes to Yifan’s side and touches his cheek. His voice is like sweetened wine when he hums, “Yifan, this is my student, Huang Zitao.” 

Yifan glances momentarily to the boy, who bows to him respectfully, and Yixing beckons him closer. 

“Tell me what you observe when you see Yifan’s wound, please, Zitao-di.” Yixing is polite in his speech, dainty in his touch as he reveals Yifan’s stomach, and constant in the way he glances into Yifan’s eyes every few seconds. 

Voice less honeyed than Yixing’s, but still soothing, Zitao speaks: “It is healing well from the edges inwards. There is no sign of infection of inflammation, and the stitching is reflective of a master skilled in sutures.”

“How do you think this wound was inflicted?” Yixing moves to crouch slightly, making room for Zitao to draw nearer. 

“A blade, one forged of high quality, but its master did not wield it with the aptitude to kill.” Zitao’s remarks are made with glances towards Yixing, seeking confirmation, and Yixing smiles gently as he gives it. He even says more as Yixing silently requests it. “In itself, the wound is most probable to have been the result of a sword, as it does not have a clear entry point for a stab wound, and the movement of it is in a curve.”

“And what of the treatment?” Yixing asks, movement appearing at the entryway of the tent to reveal Yixing’s _‘Ge’._ “What does that tell you of the injury?”

“Without knowing the full history, the stitching implies a deep wound. However, given the time elapsed since the battle and the health of the patient, the blade is likely to have not cut deeply enough to damage the organ. It will have cut straight through the flesh. Though, that could be a result of firm armour, halting the blade from digging too deeply into the patient.”

The boy appears to pause, glancing between Yixing and Yifan unsurely, and Yixing nods once. 

“Zitao-di, the patient is a man well past his _guan li,_ do not fear what you say.” It is Yixing’s _‘Ge’_ who tells the boy this, coming to the foot of the bed to look upon this apparent examination. “Healers must pass information succinctly between one another in times of war.”

Obedient to both the silent and audible requests of his elders, the boy looks at Yixing directly. “If not recovered from the battlefield and placed under the care of a highly capable, experienced healer, the patient will have perished. Likely to blood loss, infection, or scavenger animals.”

“You are most complimentary to your favourite teacher, Zitao-di,” the _‘Ge’_ comments and Zitao smiles. 

“If you were not the son of the highest imperial healer, Lu Han-ge, I think Yixing-ge would have seized your spot.” To a general, or anyone of such a rank, such an utterance would have warranted a lashing. However, the three healers all laugh mutedly. “There is a reason why I was placed in his charge for this trip.”

“And I am the first to admit that.” _Lu Han_ reasons, coming to pat Zitao’s shoulder gently. “He always bested me in every class and has continued to do so in saving even the direst of cases.”

“If you flatter me too much, I shall develop an unhealthy ego.” Yixing reprimands, slowly redressing Yifan’s wounds and smiling slightly whenever his fingers brush Yifan’s bare skin.

“You are even receiving a lesson in humbleness today, it seems,” Lu Han jokes, coming to the other side of Yifan’s bed to pull out a new tunic for him to hand to Yixing. “Here, we have the youngest imperial healer in this dynasty’s long history, accepted by my father before his _guan li_ , still humble. Now, he has saved both the most gravely injured and most handsome man from the battlefield, and he still refuses praise.”

“Could you please turn, Zitao-di and Ge, so that I can dress Yifan peacefully?” Yixing ignores what they say to make his request and they obey it, standing to face the side of the tent. 

Yixing touches Yifan’s cheek then, placing a kiss on his jawbone and then again just under his eye. Whispered so softly that Yifan almost misses it, Yixing tells him, “Good morning, _qinai de._ ”

“Good morning,” he manages to respond at equal volume, smiling at Yixing and enjoying having him so close to change from one tunic to another. 

“May we turn now, Yixing-ge?” Zitao requests and Yixing hums in the affirmative once Yifan’s covered up again and they’ve parted. “Is there anything else I should be assessed on?”

“Just a few more things,” Yixing informs him. “The trajectory of healing, what needs to be sustained or changed, and what can be done to build strength for full health again.”

Zitao does as he’s asked, eliciting praise from both Lu Han and Yixing. But Yifan barely pays it any mind, instead, he keeps his eyes upon Yixing. He sees how Yixing’s fingers creep towards Yifan, unconsciously wanting to be closer, and how Yixing smiles at him when he realises he’s being watched. It feels like something Yifan has only seen in operas held in the town an hour from his village, an enchanting emotion that would reduce his mother to tears whenever she took him to watch. 

Yifan stares until they have to leave, needing to tend to their other patients and duties. Yixing meets his gaze before leaving, levelling Yifan with a look that settles warmth in Yifan’s chest, wishing Yixing’s lips were on his skin once more.

***

Yixing spends each and every night by Yifan’s side, always close by and helping him walk more evening again. Yifan regains his strength a little faster than he anticipated, focusing on moving with the least pain from his abdomen. Yixing kisses his cheeks to reward him, flitting his fingers up Yifan’s face and into his hair. 

One time, Yixing invites Yifan to leave the tent. Yifan hesitates before agreeing, not wishing to be seen so clearly if he is considered a traitor to the emperor. Yixing tells him, unprompted but thoughtfully, that most others in the camp will be in their bunks. Yifan will be able to walk freely alongside Yixing, no one thinking any differently of him. 

So, he follows Yixing out, their arms looped together to help Yifan when he tires, and also so that Yifan can keep Yixing close to his side.

Yifan notes the size of this camp first off, flowing endlessly across the plain they’re on, even under the meagre moonlight and the distant glows of campfires metres ahead. It has to be at least four times the size of the camp the rebellion army Yifan populated. Perhaps, even more expansive than that. But Yixing leads him from the camp, towards the edge of a running river that sits just beyond a thin line of trees. The water flowing is so refreshing to Yifan, something that reminds him of home, and he wishes he could run. He would bound straight into the waters to swim and clean himself, if he had the ability. 

Instead, he holds Yixing closer, only releasing him to sit together upon the risen roots of some ancient tree. It is dark with how the sun is setting off in the distance, but there is still enough for Yifan to look at Yixing clearly. 

“Yixing,” he calls softly, earning the man’s gaze. “Why did you save me?”

The question doesn’t appear to come as a shock to Yixing, who closes his eyes, tilting his face upwards to the moon, to simply breathe for a few moments before even speaking. 

“I couldn’t stand to see you die,” he confesses, opening his eyes again to look at the stars. “You were suffering, and I could not bear it. As much as Lu Han-ge and Zitao-di jest, I am aware of my talents in healing. I knew I could save you.”

“But, why?” Yifan mutedly implores. “I am a traitor in the eyes of your generals and emperor.”

Yixing closes his eyes once more, screwing his face up, as if reliving some dark pain.

“That day, there was so much death. Piles of bodies, blood in pools large enough to be puddles, and the cold chill of departed souls… After that, when you see someone dying, like you were, it does not matter which banner they march under, you want to ease their suffering. But, I am no soldier; I cannot kill. I only wish to heal. So, to lessen your pain, I did what I know best. I brought you here, placed you in my own tent, and used what I could to rescue you.”

Tears leak from the edges of Yixing’s eyes when he bows his head downwards, using his sleeves to dab them away and soon again, he dispels his frown for a smile. 

“I managed to save you, that is all that matters to me now.” The words are spoken in a reassuring tone, one that breaks Yifan’s heart. It speaks of those horrors Yifan knew Yixing was too young to see. 

“Do you think I am truly a traitor?”

Yixing chews his lip, shrugging slightly, “It depends on the reasons for joining the rebellion. If it was out of blood-thirst… Perhaps I would.”

“My mother was dying, something rotting her from the inside out, during the winter, back when word broke in our village of the minister calling all of the local men to serve him. Her father had served in the army of the minister’s father, back when there had been a flood and dissent sparked amongst the people. 

“I had thought the minister to be a good man. A sensible and respectable man. Someone who would only want the best for the people beneath him and guide this country further to greatness. So, I wished to show some gesture towards those around me in moving to support him, following in the steps my mother's father had trodden.”

Yixing’s head remains bowed but he listens, hand finding Yifan’s to hold it between them. “It sounds as though you regret it…”

“My mother…” Yifan feels tears sting in his eyes, choking up his throat. “My mother told me, as she was dying, that she never wished for me to go to war… She made me promise her to be safe. And I didn’t.”

 _“Qinai de,_ you were safe. You fell where I would be searching for survivors.” 

Whilst the words do not comfort Yifan in the underbelly of his lamentation, it makes him wonder. He questions if his ancestors had guided him there for Yixing to find. It’s, only for a moment. Still, that is long enough. The thought resides in his head, blossoming in thanks for Yixing’s very existence. 

It’s impossible to repress the turmoil that erupts from Yifan, a sobbed hiccup shattering his words: “Yixing, he only wished to grow his own power… He did not care for his men, he led us to slaughter and surrendered with his tail between his legs. There is no greater disgrace than to march under a traitor’s name.”

Yixing doesn’t say a single word. Perhaps, not knowing what to say or not having anything to say. Yifan cries as silently as he can manage and, from the trembling of Yixing’s hand, he supposes Yixing is doing the same. There is blood on Yifan’s hands and Yifan’s blood on someone else’s, and Yixing has tried to wash it all away. Perhaps the men Yifan felled were friends Yixing adored, perhaps Yixing’s friends had killed the boys Yifan grew up with in his village. Neither of them were to know. It was exhausting and horrific, scarring even for Yifan who had lost everything even before the war had begun.

“Perhaps we should head back,” Yixing suggests, not even attempting to even out his voice. 

He rises first then holds out his hand for Yifan, guiding him up onto his feet then in the direction of the camp. They move even more slowly than before, as if reeling from their own memories, and Yifan wonders if Yixing will still care for him in the way he has been. 

That is dispelled immediately once they return to the tent, where Yixing holds Yifan in his arms and his throat is kissed so many times that he loses count. Yifan’s arms cradle Yixing’s head close, rooting him in place, just to ensure he doesn’t slip away. 

Yifan only releases Yixing when he says, “I need to redress your bandages before you sleep, to check you over.”

It’s a tragic kind of beauty, to see Yixing’s eyes glassy and rimmed with red in the limited light of the small fire. It’s an easy task to kiss where Yixing’s tears have left glimmering tracks down his cheeks, so Yifan does that and Yixing runs his hands down the front of Yifan’s chest. He pulls Yifan’s tunic upwards, revealing his torso, and Yifan’s skin resembles gooseflesh when Yixing’s fingers touch him. 

His bandaging is unwound, even when Yixing’s eyes are closed to enjoy the sensation of Yifan’s lips on his face. Yixing withdraws for a moment, though, so ensure the walk hasn’t damaged anything on Yifan’s stomach. With loose pushes to his shoulders, Yifan allows Yixing to usher him to the bed, where he lays and is covered in the blanket by Yixing. There’s a pause when neither of them does anything. They look at one another, hands entwined. 

Then, Yixing leans in to kiss the tip of Yifan’s nose. He shuffles around until he can perch on Yifan’s bed. He bows over Yifan, both hands holding Yifan’s face with his thumbs skimming over Yifan’s cheeks adoringly. He takes on a serious countenance for a moment, voicing his thoughts out lowly to not be overhead. 

“You wished to defend your family and those around you, you held a sword because you wished for this country to be better, and you believed in the person governing you. Those do not make you a traitor.” Yixing whispers, carding through Yifan’s hair and scratching at his scalp with his fingertips. “The only traitor is the minister, he did not act with grace and led you - and all those slain men - astray. Good people reside on both sides, and you are one of the best.”

He leaves then. Another kiss on Yifan’s chin as his parting gift.

Yifan sleeps that night wishing Yixing was by his side, so he could hold him as they both dream.

***

Yixing removes the sutures from Yifan’s skin with a small blade, cutting through the threads with precision and speed. He’s told by Zitao that the area will feel tender for more days to come, it will be red for a long while yet and will probably be discoloured and raised for life. It doesn’t have scab, nothing so gory that Yifan can’t bear to look at, and Yixing runs his fingers across it tenderly. 

Zitao observed the process to learn more of Yixing’s technique. Lu Han had joined them between Yixing explaining to Yifan what he was doing and him physically doing it. There had been a single tense moment, when Lu Han had advised that Zitao do the procedure, as it was relatively minor. 

Yixing had seized up then, hands gripping at the blade, his refusal promptly spilling from his lips. Lu Han had only worn his shock for under a second before it was flattened, looking Yixing firmly in the eyes. 

“Lu Han-ge,” Yixing silently begged, as if Lu Han would understand. 

It was from his sigh that Yifan knew Lu Han had registered what Yixing had silently stated. Between the three medics, glances were shared, with Yixing’s being imploring, Zitao’s being innocently cast, and Lu Han’s tightening slightly. 

Eventually, Yixing was the one to do it, and Yifan had the delight of Yixing’s warm fingers on his skin.

Now, the three healers eat their lunches alongside Yifan, sitting on the ground beside his bed, where Yifan himself sits. Whilst he knows their company is not for him to enjoy, it is Yixing’s, he finds himself submerged in their camaraderie. It is clear to Yifan that they were bonded before coming to war, with Lu Han speaking of Yixing’s behaviour as a young boy. Zitao also reveals to Yifan that Yixing’s mother is a seamstress at the palace, who taught Yixing needlework from his youngest years, causing him to be one of the most steady-handed doctors within the palace. 

If the emperor’s crown prince harms himself whilst practicing swordsmanship, Yixing is the one hailed for to quickly and efficiently seal any wounds. Zitao’s father is a merchant, who pushed for Zitao to enter the imperial medical academy, where he was quickly taken under Yixing’s wing. For Lu Han, his path had always been predestined by his father, and Yifan senses a little resentment when that’s revealed and Yixing pats his leg comfortingly. 

The most telling thing is when Lu Han jokes, “If only Yixing was his son, then his lineage would have been perfect.”

Laughter is strained amongst them, but Yixing brilliantly deflects, reminding them, “I am only favoured because of what my mother taught me, perhaps I would have been terrible under the imperial healer’s filial tutelage.”

Zitao agrees, “The imperial healer is a brilliant healer, but there are far more advanced tutors. All of whom Lu Han-ge surpasses. I have always learnt more in hours with the both of you, and Lu Han-ge was Yixing-ge’s tutor. That speaks with far more weight than the academy’s choices.”

“Zitao-di, you should not speak words like that so brazenly,” Yixing warns.

Lu Han agrees, too, reminding them all that, “These tents do not have walls. Be careful of your tongue.”

Zitao apologises with a bow and Yifan feels for the boy, for the words he spoke were evidently the truth, if the two older healers are so quick to quieten him. But, it eases Yifan that this adolescent has two elders to guide him and protect him, keeping him safe from the damage a slip of the tongue can do. 

Soon, chatter turns to Yifan, when Lu Han asks Yifan of his family and Yifan shifts uneasily. 

He is not learned like the others, he can read and write, but that is the extent of his education, other than swordsmanship that he learnt from his neighbour’s father. They are versed in poets and the arts, fine foods and the silks of the palace. Yifan knows nothing of that, merely dirt and irrigation systems. 

“We are farmers,” he says, before grimacing. His misstep is noted only by Yixing. _“I_ am a farmer. The ancestors have welcomed my family already, only I remain now.”

Surprisingly, none of them speak in words of judgement, only curiosity of the basics of life. They ask him how to tend to animals and how troublesome the seasons are to crops. Their interest calms Yifan and he can speak openly about it, avoiding conversations of his mother. He explains that he had early mornings harvesting then a few hours in his neighbour’s house for writing lessons, then leaving back out to the fields to help complete the tasks and renew planting. 

He shows them callouses on his hands, ones that have been there since the earliest memories of his youth. He explains the smells and the sights he would encounter, animals butchered for the entire village to trade for. He speaks of floods and droughts, ravaged lands that destroy an entire year’s worth of work. 

“What about a wife?” Zitao queries, glancing Yifan once over. “Most men of your age that I know have a spouse. Even Lu Han has been to the matchmaker and wed.”

Yifan glances down at his hands, a shrug running through his shoulders. “I do not have much to offer a spouse, the matchmaker has often overlooked me for men in better standing in the village. I was raised solely by my mother, so I focused solely on supporting her before… Before she passed on.”

An awkward quiet falls before Zitao’s voice is heard again, attempting to reassure Yifan by supposing an idea. “Perhaps you are the same as Yixing, working yourself to the bone and never finding time to commit to matchmaking.”

“Perhaps,” Yifan mutters, and he can feel Yixing looking at him.

It’s unspoken, the true reasoning behind Yifan’s lack of marriage, but Yixing knows. Yixing understands it because they are the same.

***

One day is too hot, beyond comfortable for Yifan in the tent where he spends his time sitting and shuffling around. Yixing has been off in the main medical area all day. The heat is driving many men to dehydration and fainting spells have become common, straining the doctors. And Yifan would have spent his day in his tent, obediently awaiting Yixing’s visits, had Lu Han not hauled a barely lucid Yixing through the front of his tent. 

Lu Han said only one thing, with a degree of ferocity that rivalled the sun in the sky:

“He is forbidden from returning to the treatment area until tomorrow. When he comes to, remind him that if he does not care for himself, he will die before he treats all of his patients. Perhaps he will listen to you.”

In a terrifying reversal of their roles, Yixing lays upon the bed and Yifan stands still at the foot of it. He watches Yixing, worried and confused. Until he notes Yixing’s dry lips and skin. 

Yifan fetches his own water and mimics what Yixing had done to him when he could barely lift his own head. He pours water into Yixing’s slightly parted lips and is comforted by the fact that Yixing responds by swallowing it down. After that, Yifan does not have to wait long for Yixing to rouse, hand pressed to his head whilst he blearily blinks. 

“Yixing?” Yifan calls in a soft hum, running his thumb across Yixing’s lips. “Are you awake?”

Unlike any other sound he has ever heard Yixing make, Yixing groans until it fades out to a whine. Yifan retrieves him something else to drink, opting to go for the tea Yifan had brewed for himself only a few moments before Lu Han had emerged. Yixing takes that easily, too, even chasing after the cup when Yifan lowers it to allow Yixing to breathe.

Once that cup is emptied and Yixing’s eyes are visibly more focused, Yifan questions: “What happened to you?”

“I was stupid… I pushed myself too far and did not follow Lu Han-ge’s orders.”

“He said you are not to return there today, so make sure that you rest and get all the sleep you can. I shall bring you some warm water, it will be better than cold.”

Yixing does not protest when Yifan continually supplies him with tea from the pot over the fire and foods that Yixing brought Yifan to have during the day. Yifan tells him which things to eat and which ones will make him feel worse. Yixing looks at them all with a confused expression. 

“How would you know what to do?” It’s not offensive to ask, not meant to be demeaning, so Yifan doesn’t take it that way. Instead, he moves to kiss Yixing’s sweat-covered forehead.

“I farm in the south during the summer months and have done since I was six, for twenty-four summers now, Yixing,” Yifan reminds him and Yixing looks sheepish for a moment. “I know what the sun, heat, and humidity can do to a body if it is not cared for. You are already sleep-deprived and likely giving all of your energy to your patients, rather than taking breaks to replenish often. You must learn to look after yourself to be able to care for others at your best.”

Yifan does not enjoy scolding people, but it’s evident to both himself and Yixing that he cares deeply for Yixing, to the point where anything terrible happening to Yixing makes him fear loss. 

An apology falls from Yixing’s lips, sitting up and leaning towards Yifan. Guilt makes itself at home on Yixing’s features and Yifan cannot help but try to kiss them away. He does that, chasing all negative feelings from Yixing’s face until they’re replaced with muted laughter. Yifan inches back, scanning his eyes over Yixing’s entirety before looking into his eyes.

Yixing looks back, blinking, and Yifan just cannot stop himself this time. He leans in and places his lips upon Yixing’s, uncaring if they’re dry and slightly scratchy, it’s everything he has been urging himself to do day after day. Yixing responds in kind, his hands coming up to Yifan’s nape and catching there, nails digging in softly as he clenches. 

It isn’t chaste. Nor is it a tangle of tongues. It is tender and cloying, leaving nothing but the taste of sweetened tea between Yifan’s lips. Despite their roughness, Yifan relishes in the pressure Yixing supplies, the closeness of the interaction. It feels like the epitome of intimacy when Yixing sighs dreamily into the kiss, telling Yifan everything in a single sound. Yixing has waited and craved this, and now he has it. 

The moment is something Yifan can grasp between his fingers, just as tangibly as he can hold onto Yixing before him.

They draw apart when Yixing laughs, eyelashes fluttering prettily whilst the sound melts Yifan’s heart entirely. Yixing looks everything like the angel he imagined him to be when he first laid eyes upon him, doused in something more celestial than Yifan could ever possibly comprehend. So, he doesn’t try to. He basks in it, soaking in Yixing’s glow, and Yifan doesn’t think he could ever want their first kiss to change.

***

Yixing’s fingertips feel gentle in Yifan’s hair, washing soap through it, and Yifan relaxes entirely where he leans towards Yixing, both standing in the waist high water of the river. The water is cooling, something to raise gooseflesh on their skin as the late afternoon sun still beats punishingly down onto the earth. Both of them blush deeply at the sight of each other, the context different to the times when Yixing would bathe Yifan in the tent. He never touched Yifan’s hair, never took it down from where it had been tied away, and Yifan had never seen Yixing’s body. Nor his hair, too, either. 

They wash each other away from the eyes of the camp, learning each other’s body with their mouths and open palms, each peak and trough of their flesh committed to memory. Yixing even touches along Yifan’s scar, tickling where it is sensitive until Yifan shudders at the sensation. 

It is otherworldly, some dreamscape Yifan’s fallen into where he’s the centre of everything someone does. 

Kisses placed upon each other’s lips become commonplace but no less meaningful. They are tender moments when Yifan is sure they can experience each other’s emotions so rawly that the connection they have is intense. 

But, it is in the washing of his hair, where Yixing is so careful to keep oils and soap from Yifan’s eyes with one hand whilst he lathers Yifan’s scalp with the other, that Yifan understands Yixing the most. There’s a vulnerability to being washed so fully by someone else, bare bodied in the open air, and that is what he experiences in its purest form. 

When he returns the favour for Yixing, he attempts to be just as considerate, to leave the impression upon Yixing that he himself received. 

It appears to work as Yixing sighs and wraps his arms around Yifan’s waist, fitting there perfectly. He closes his eyes and trusts Yifan wholly when he rinses everything away. And they return from the water to let the summer heat dry their skin, rather than clamber for fabrics.

Now wet and hanging freely, Yixing takes the chance to touch all over Yifan’s hair. He even plaits it into an ornate bun, which he slips Yifan’s _zan_ into to keep it in place before wrapping it in darkened fabric. Yifan binds Yixing hair, too, just with less skill and neatness of design. Still, Yixing looks beautiful with his neck displayed so openly, the perfect accompaniment to Yixing’s naked form.

If Yifan was told in his childhood that he was to make love to an angel beside a calmly flowing river, sunbeams shining through the leaves above like golden stars, then he never would have believed it.

However, Yixing is there beneath him and clinging to him, tears wetting his lashes as they move together. Yifan has never felt so at home being so close to someone else. And, even if it is him inside Yixing, he feels as though Yixing has permeated through him entirely and has grasped his heart in his hand. 

Yixing’s hands leave marks on Yifan’s skin, unable to realise that he is clasped around Yifan so ferociously to ground himself during his pleasure. He moans and mewls in Yifan’s ear, calling out his name for only him to hear. And Yifan’s breathing catches on Yixing’s neck, where his head is buried. He mouths and kisses at the spot, enjoying how Yixing’s body responds to it. 

When Yifan finishes inside Yixing, it’s with a silent cry that’s exhaled on Yixing’s skin, and Yixing’s entire body seizes up when he cums on Yifan’s stomach. They wash it all away in the river again, kissing until the pink of their lips is diffused at the edges, then tangle themselves up to kiss on the grassy riverbank. 

It’s the most delightful way, Yifan thinks, to be so devoted to adoring an angel.

***

Talk rumbles through the camp that the generals are going to disperse them, with the war truly won for the emperor’s forces and the brunt of the injuries have been treated and healed. Men talk of heading back to their homes, in all directions, and they group up to navigate the country together. 

Yifan can hear it all from within the tent, voices un-hushed and unfiltered as men talk of the sea of the east and the mountains of the north. They are homesick and battle-scarred men who long for nothing other than the loving arms of their wives or families, reminiscing what they had to leave behind in order to quell the unsuccessful rebellion. Yifan thinks himself amongst that group, longing for home but still feeling as though it is just out of reach. 

Only, Yifan has nothing to return to and something to leave. 

There will be nothing for him to farm and trade with this year, last year’s crops likely rotting in his house’s silo, and it shall be nothing other than hardship that stretches before him until next summer is done. 

The one thing he may return for is his mother, to reside near her burial ground and live on the land she loved. 

But Yixing, he is something Yifan never knew could exist on this mortal plane. They wake up beside one another, bodies twisted together with the scented oils of lovemaking smeared upon their skin. They take their meals together, pressed together or leant upon one another. Yifan has found something so perfect that leaving it would only break his heart.

Still, he doesn’t know if what they have will stretch beyond the camp.

So, he worries. He frets and panics at the idea of being so far from Yixing, living without the sweet sound of Yixing’s voice or the tender beauty of his face. It sickens him, lessens his appetite and steals away his sleep, and all he can do is gaze upon Yixing and hoping. Hoping he can be everything Yixing may want to keep with him. 

Yixing is not blind, so he notices Yifan’s discomfort quickly, sitting him down one evening to shower him in concern. 

“What is wrong, _qinai de?”_ He croons, fawning to kiss Yifan and touch his bare chest. “What is devouring your attention from me?”

Yifan stills Yixing, wishing to look into his eyes instead. “What are your plans once the camp is dissolved? Where will you go?”

That takes Yixing aback, evidently shocked that Yifan has heard the rumours, but he straightens his posture and composes himself with ease. 

“It is my duty to resume my post in the capital,” Yixing informs him, as if they both did not already know that was a necessity. All Yifan yearns to know is where he fits in alongside Yixing, if their hands will still be joined once this makeshift town is dismantled. 

Yixing is young, only two summers past his _guan li_ , where Yifan is ten past his own. This may merely be something that is a whirlwind for Yixing, intense yet temporary. Yifan does not think their relationship is that for him, he thinks Yixing has burrowed a permanent home in Yifan’s head and heart, something that shall never leave him until his final breath.

Yifan looks at his own hands, held together in his lap, breathing without the labour of pain for the first time in so long, and he does not know what else to say. 

Silence hangs, suspended from a noose that Yifan thinks could kill him, and he pleads in his head for Yixing to speak, to say something more to him that may show him a sign of where they shall head. If their path will split into two, never to meet again, or if they will continue onwards. 

Yifan motions to lay himself upon the bed, desolate inside, when Yixing’s voice breaks through the tension. It’s timid, lacking entirely in confidence, but it is all Yifan can hear.

“Will you follow me? Will you spend your life with me in the capital?”

A single glance at Yixing’s face shows Yifan that the man has tears spilling from his eyes, the irises wrought with fear. 

Yifan confesses, breath against Yixing’s lips and a single hand pressed over where Yixing’s heart beats in his chest: “If you would wish for me to, Yixing, I would follow you to find _Fanghu.”_

***

A few nights before leaving, Yixing is called upon to send off a select few to begin their journeys back to the capital where they will rest under the watch of the healers that did not travel to the battlefront. 

It leaves Yifan with a handful of hours to himself, of which he finds himself hunched over a single piece of parchment with a brush in one hand and a small well of ink before him. He stares at the paper for a long while, holding his breath as words race through his head, before he even places the hairs into the ink. 

Nevertheless, once he begins to write, the words flow out of him with such ease that he fills the page, waiting for it to try fully before turning it over to write more. 

It’s a letter to his mother.

He’s telling her of the man he’s met, younger than Yifan but far more skilled and educated, far more beautiful in ways Yifan thought only existed in legends. He tells her of the war, of his closeness to death, and how that same man who he feels so fondly for, was the angel who brought him to safety.

With his words, he tells her that he thinks she would adore Yixing and embrace him as a son of her own. Yifan jokes that she would possibly prefer him, with his ability to stitch both flesh and fabric. That Yixing can paint with a brush and prose, that he can do everything she once dreamt up for Yifan to learn.

But the difficulty in writing when he nears the end. He does not know how to fully encapsulate his emotions in this written script, but he makes an attempt faith that it shall be enough. 

He writes it plainly that he does not plan to return to their home. He fears that loneliness shall haunt him, that he may perish before the year has passed, if he was to return. He expresses that he shall follow his angel to the capital, to continue on his family name until his last breath, that he shall do something to make his mother rest soundly. 

It is a stark realisation for Yifan to note that he has not shed a single tear whilst he writes. His heart may have weakened with the words written, he is able to be steadfast and immovable in completing his task. If he was not able to maintain composure, he does not think he would have been able to do any of it. 

He leaves the tent and heads straight out towards the river, taking in the sound of its movement when he approaches. The river runs south, possibly the entire way to the sea, south of where Yifan is from. When he comes to the very edge, he bends his knees to crouch and look at his own reflection in the water under the waning light. Though, he does not linger on it.

Rather than remain stagnant, he places the parchment into the flow and releases it, tracing its trail until it disappears from his view. He hopes she can read it and forgive him. 

***

Lu Han manages to use his influence to wrangle the horse of a dead soldier for Yifan to ride, just so he can move along with them to the capital than be lost in the throngs of men going on foot. Yifan has not ridden since his younger years and he knows it will be uncomfortable whilst he adjusts, but he still prefers it to walking. Especially after Yixing notifies Yifan that it had taken them a full half-moon to travel from the capital to the battle. 

Yifan has nothing to pack up, but Yixing has plenty that he had to bring with him, so Yifan aids him in collecting all of his items and medicines. Still, Yixing does not let Yifan exert himself too much, fearing that it will hinder the final stages of his healing if he does too much. Taking Yixing’s scolding as law, Yifan does only what he is allowed to. 

He encourages Yixing to eat and drink consistently, if he is moving so much under the sun. Lu Han and Zitao express gratitude for Yifan maintaining the health of the friend so well, lessening a burden that usually lays upon their shoulders. 

It isn’t any monumental effort on Yifan’s behalf to feel the urge to keep Yixing safe, so he accepts their praise with slight bows and spoken gratitude. Yixing complains that he is not a child, but none of them listen to him. Yifan continues on with his nagging, enjoying the sight of Yixing eating more than most other things. 

When it is time to leave, Yifan presses a kiss to Yixing’s mouth when they are sheltered by the bodies of their horses. It feels like a moment stolen within the organised chaos, one Yifan thinks of constantly for the first day of their travels. 

The kiss is something just for them before they depart. However, it also serves to quell part of the guilt and fear that accompanies moving northwards from his own. It is nothing he imagined he would do, to leave everything he had with his mother behind after him, and that weighs on his heart. He can only wish that by some spiritual wonder, that his mother has seen the letter he scribed for her to read, that she will understand that this may be what he needs to do. Rather than just something he wants to. 

Yixing senses this and holds his hand reassuringly until Lu Han and Zitao appear to mount their horses, with Yixing and Yifan following suit.

The ride is occupied with chatting, the three healers advising Yifan on what to anticipate in seeing the capital. They note how much life and exotic trade surrounds the palace walls, of the furs and metalworking from somewhere far more west than Yifan could comprehend, and how the food holds the fruits of foreign lands. 

Yifan thinks of it as somewhere that defies what Yifan knows, having only been raised within the village with trips to a tiny town once or twice a year to trade with his mother. So, after days spent atop the mare he rides and nights snuck into Yixing’s bed, Yifan’s breath is stolen when he observes the size of the city as it appears on the horizon. 

The city sighs with steam and smoke, the people moving like liquid amongst the buildings, and Yifan does not know how to comprehend a single sight of it. Yixing laughs at Yifan’s shocked wonderment and informs him that Yixing’s chambers are close to the palace, far enough away from the densely populated areas that spill over one another. 

They ride through the city, numerous people yelling their thanks in the army defending their emperor’s legacy. Yifan can only bow his head as that occurs, ashamed that such gratitude is expressed in his direction. It only happens for a short while, but it makes Yifan glad when the noise begins to fade. 

Slowly, their horses draw them to a large ornate, gated building, where both Zitao and Yixing vacate the saddles, with Yifan following a few beats behind. Following the healers inside, Yifan trails through to see splendour he cannot entirely understand on his own. 

It is a residence, one both Zitao and Yixing display comfort moving around in, heading through the doorways and down the corridors until Zitao splits off with a quick bow. Yixing turns to hold Yifan’s hand then, smiling at him.

“This is where you shall live now, by my side.” The dimple beside Yixing’s mouth is deep enough to cast a shadow within itself, calling to be kissed. So, Yifan does. 

***

Where Yifan rouses in his bed, all that can be heard are the songs of birds amongst the blossoms and the running water of the outdoor stream that feeds to a lotus pool in the centre of the garden courtyard. Night has left the world and daylight is on the rise, casting the room in a pleasing morning glow. Yifan stretches once through before shifting his weight to look across the room.

Yixing is dressed up in fine clothing, befitting for an imperial healer more so than the plain war-time clothes that had hung over his body when they had first met. An ornament in his hair sits prettily, swaying slightly when he moves, and the _zan_ in his hair glints in a shade of silver where Yixing’s hair had been delicately woven into an intricate pattern. One servant busies themselves checking Yixing over, ensuring that the man appears perfect to anyone who looks upon him.

The sound of Yifan rising from where he rests has Yixing glancing around to greet him with a soft, “ _Qinai de,_ you’re awake.”

If Yifan hadn’t known better, he would have assumed Yixing the most loved and adored concubine of the emperor. The kind of beauty some lovesick leader would go to war over. 

And Yifan finds himself thinking that he would suffer the perils of war, just for Yixing to continue to look upon him as he does now. He would much prefer to die for love than to die for greed. Though, now he has found love, he is certain that he would prefer to not die at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
